


The Nature of Home

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is what you make of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [What_the_FrUK October Lovefest](http://what-the-fruk.livejournal.com/317427.html?thread=1806835#t1806835) over on LJ. Ragnhild wanted a fic about them moving in together, and I got a little carried away.
> 
> This has a lot of bits that I took from my own long-distance relationship, and so as such this is dedicated to my Canuck. I love you babe, I can't wait to move in the moment I'm done with this whole 'university' thing.

  
_"Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction."  
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery_   


Francis is romantic.

When he pictures the apartment he and Arthur will share (which he hasn't actually seen yet, only floor plans emailed and gushed over), he pictures a sunny kitchen with sparkling granite counters, one bed big enough for two and a garden outside filled with roses. He dreamily imagines what it will be like, waking up together every day instead of stolen weekends here or there, going grocery shopping hand in hand and sitting together for hours on the couch, just enjoying the company.

He pictures the first space, ever, that will belong to the two of them together, instead of being _Arthur's_ basement apartment or _Francis'_ tiny dorm room.

Arthur is pragmatic.

 _'Are you bringing your dresser with you?'_ he texts Francis in between mixing drinks one night. _'Or is that something else to put on the list for IKEA?'_

 _'I have no idea'_ comes the response, and Arthur glares at his phone.

He sees the logistics of it; he'll have to loan Francis money to rent the moving truck, figure out when he's going to need to take time off work, and what in the world are they going to do if Francis' work permit doesn't go through? It's going to be a nightmare, Arthur thinks, and his refrigerator at home is covered with sticky notes that get rearranged daily as he tries to make some sense of what they're going to need to do when.

He hasn't even thought about the afterward yet, about when he and Francis are actually sharing space on a permanent basis. He's not thinking about it on purpose, because there's a small part of him afraid they're going to crash and burn. There'll be fights over the bathroom and arguments over music, movies, food, and (dear god) money. Arthur's never had to try and work out a joint budget with _anyone_ before, he can't imagine it's going to be fun or pretty.

( _"You worry too much,"_ Francis tells him airily. _"You don't worry enough,"_ Arthur counters.)

Arthur's older brother only ever did one charitable thing in his entire life, and that was introducing him to Francis. Ian had spent a year abroad in France during university, and during one week-long visit home he'd brought Francis with him. He and Arthur had hit it off, if you could call a fight that ended in two torn throw pillows and a shattered plate from the Kirkland antique china 'hitting it off'. But somehow, for some reason neither Arthur nor Francis remembers anymore, after Francis had gone home to Paris they started emailing each other.

They didn't have much in common then, (Arthur was studying linguistics and writing a thesis on Shakespeare, Francis was an architecture student who went out of his way to avoid Shakespeare) and they still don't have much in common now (Arthur's thesis still isn't done, but Francis admits a grudging fondness for the sonnets and _Twelfth Night_ now). But the emails had kept going, followed by instant messages and eventually texts and rare, hoarded, fiendishly expensive phone calls.

 _"Happy birthday frog,"_ begins one memorable one that Francis had found on his voicemail after a stint sketching Notre-Dame with his phone on vibrate in his bag. _"Can't even pick up your own bloody phone. I'll send your present as soon as I have a little money to spare, which is I don't know when so I'll go ahead and tell you. Coldplay has a new album out, I thought you might like it. Ian sends his best wishes and don't you dare call me back, this is more expensive than it's worth."_

But Arthur had still called.

In the middle of winter, Arthur had gotten an envelope full of photographs of Paris in the spring, summer, fall. Francis was in none of them, and yet in all of them, because Arthur knew it was his eyes that picked out the things he knew Arthur would find interesting, his fingers that clicked the shutter. On the back of the last of them (a picture of a dreary street from three floors up, storm drains clogged with fallen leaves, a view Arthur knew from his visit in August was what could be seen out Francis' bedroom window), scrawled in careless, careful pencil,

 _'I miss you, Arthur'_

Which was funny and depressing all at once (and still is) because total they've only spent about three weeks together over the last four years.

 _'Goddamn the Channel,'_ they both think sometimes.

And they still fight like cats and dogs, rain and sun, the French and the British. But somehow it's become almost affectionate banter, part of their lives.

When Francis gets too busy trying to finish up his classes and doesn't talk to Arthur for a few days, Arthur finds himself drifting off at work, hands automatically pouring the drinks while in his mind he's imagining a cocky smirk and long-fingered hands shaking a finger in his face, scolding him for something-or-other.

And when Arthur gets in a snit and refuses to return his texts, it hurts Francis a lot more than it really should, and he finds himself not drafting as much as he should and staring at his phone instead, willing it to ring.

They can't, neither one of them, live without the thrill of arguing with a worthy adversary (without each other).

It looms between them, like something alive.

Francis remembers when he realized it. They were on a bus, it was late spring in France. It was only the second time they'd ever been together in person, and Francis had taken Arthur out on a trip to see the beauty of the French countryside. But it was dark now, and there was nothing to look at out the windows, and Arthur had dozed off and slipped to lay his head against Francis' chest.

And Francis' heart had skipped a beat. He can remember being grateful for the dark so none of the other passengers would see him blush. He remembers staying still even after his arm fell asleep, because whatever this was, he was so _sure_ he'd never be able to have it again and so he wanted to make it last.

 _"My God,"_ he can remember thinking. _"So this is love."_

And Arthur remembers when he finally admitted it to himself. It was their fourth time seeing each other, three years after they met. It was England this time, Francis had hitch-hiked over through the Chunnel on a school holiday and surprised Arthur on his. They'd walked down to a little bakery that Arthur practically supported all on his own, ordered scones and cinnamon rolls and spiced cider and then sat down to enjoy them in the crisp autumn air.

 _"I can see why you like this place!"_ Francis had laughed, small bits of strusel clinging to his goatee. _"It's so quaint and frumpy, just like you."_

And part of Arthur had wanted to strangle him as usual, but the rest of him was suddenly noticing how brightly Francis' hair glowed in the sunlight, how the bridge of his nose crinkled when he laughed, how much at ease he looked here, in Leichester, just as though it was Paris or Lyon.

 _"Dammit,"_ Arthur remembers thinking, fists clenched on the tabletop in what Francis thought was anger, _"Dammit, I want you to stay."_

It stayed crouched there between them, unacknowledged and unremarked upon, for another year, until another visit, until it was too big to ignore.

Until Francis, just about to raise his hand to wave goodbye, had thrown everything out the window and lunged forward to grab Arthur's wrist and pull him back instead. _"Arthur, I-"_ Arthur remembers being in awe that for once Francis seemed to be the one tripping over his tongue. _"What I mean, is, Arthur, can I kiss you?"_

And then they'd stood and stared at each other in the middle of the crowded airport, that thing between them twining around their ankles and purring up a storm, until Arthur had leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn't anything great and romantic. It was a quick, embarrassed peck before he had to hurry to his plane. But it set both their hearts beating and blooming.

There is no one moment to pin down about the business of moving in. It isn't a decision they made, it just _is_. They're both so tired of having to say goodbye, especially now that Arthur has bucked up and told his parents, _"I have a boyfriend,"_ and Francis has caught himself more than once idly browsing the British immigration process at three in the morning when he should be studying. Now that they've admitted _it_ , there is almost a physical pull between them, it hurts to be so far apart.

 _"Gravity,"_ Francis writes on the back of a postcard bound for England. _"We couldn't stop it if we tried. I don't want to try. Can you give me estimates on what rent might be?"_

And now they're here.

Francis didn't bring his dresser; it wouldn't fit in the truck and bringing it would have meant having to leave behind his drafting table. It isn't as glorious as he expected. For one thing, there isn't much garden, and for another, there isn't much sun.

But as he stands there on the front step and Arthur presses the second key into his palm, he decides it doesn't matter.

And to Arthur, for the first time, he sees what living together might be. He watches as Francis takes off his shoes, lines them up neatly in the entry way with their heels against the wall. He sees, in a flash, Francis wandering through and pausing to straighten Arthur's worn Converses, somewhere a year or a decade from now.

They're still quite likely to fight over the bathroom, but he decides it doesn't matter.

"We still need to go to IKEA," Arthur says as he steps in and closes the door behind him. "Our bed is a mattress on the floor and we don't have _near_ enough bookshelves."

Francis looks over from his contemplation of a water stain on the wall, and grins. "But the mattress and the boxes of books are _ours_."

They stare at each other, at the beginning of something bright and new, and they both know.

They're home.


End file.
